


what to aim for

by blueberrydonut



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Trans Male Character, Trans Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrydonut/pseuds/blueberrydonut
Summary: His body doesn’t align with his mind.It’s a terrifying thing to admit even to himself, let alone other people.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 217





	what to aim for

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a way for me to spill some of my thoughts through a more positive outlet ig
> 
> (cw for internalized transphobia(?), descriptions of dysphoria, implied self-harm, and brief suicidal thoughts)

Techno doesn't know when he realized.

Maybe it was the day he pushed his chest down with his hands and felt  _ elated _ at how flat it looked.

Maybe it was the day he started intentionally lowering his voice, internally berating himself each time a word came out too high-pitched.

Maybe it was the day he started referring to himself with masculine pronouns in online spaces, feeling his heart flutter every time someone greeted him with a casual, "Hey, dude."

Maybe it was the time he spent avoiding mirrors, since mirrors didn't reflect how his brain  _ needed  _ him to look. 

Maybe it was during the time he spent vehemently denying his thoughts, refusing to acknowledge them at all.

Maybe it was in that time of denial where he labeled himself a gay woman, since that was somehow easier to say to himself than anything he was actually feeling.

Maybe it was the time he spent hunched over on the toilet, menstrual pad shaking in his fist, that he realized his brain was rejecting his body—that it had been, for longer than he could even remember.

It made him sick. Looking at his body, at the curves in his figure, made him sick. Looking at his too-round face and hearing his too-high voice made him want to hurl.

The thought of being trans also made him sick, though. He didn't have something against trans people, or anything, but he simply wanted to have been  _ born  _ in a body that aligned with his mind—he didn't want to change the one he's in to only slightly resemble that. He didn't want to live with scars on his chest, or medication that served only as a reminder of how wrong his body was.

He thought, somehow, transitioning would make it worse—if that even made any sense at all.

It was confusing and terrifying to navigate, and he spent a lot more time denying it all because pretending to be a woman was so much easier than being honest.

Maybe he only wanted the social status that came with being a man, he argued with himself one night. Maybe he only wanted to be seen in society as strong and dependable, and that turned into a misplaced desire to be a man.

Maybe he was a woman, after all, because the lower half of his body felt a little less wrong than his chest. Maybe he just didn't like the feeling of wearing bras.

Maybe he was a woman, since he didn't mind that his hair hit his waist, and most trans men described chopping off their hair as a freeing experience.

Maybe it was his name that was the problem. Maybe if he turned to something that rolled off the tongue easier, these suffocating feelings would evaporate. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

No matter how many 'maybes' he pushed through his brain, it always pushed back at him with the same, cruel message: _ "You are not a woman." _

He doesn't know how many nights he spent in the dark, curled on his side and trying to just will it all away. He doesn't know when he started to see himself as more of a character than a person, disconnecting from his body completely in a convoluted effort to cope.

The only thing he knew was that everything was  _ wrong,  _ and he didn't know if he could handle it for another week.

He didn't know if he could handle sitting through his final class of the day, either, since the teacher kept calling his name and he had to keep talking in a voice that didn't suit him. He had to keep gesturing with hands that weren't his.

Worksheets scattered across his desk fluttered as crisp autumn air coasted through an open window. His pencil's tip snapped under the force of his fist, singing loud in the still classroom.

It was strange, how a single word could simultaneously make him want to rip apart his own skin and quietly weep until he died from dehydration—even fifteen minutes after it had been spoken. Even fifteen minutes after the room settled into silence.

_ She. _

It was incredibly stupid. Unfathomably idiotic, but as he rapidly clicked the far end of his mechanical pencil, that word was the only thing he could focus on.

Not the work due at the end of the hour. Not the few heads that turned his way when the graphite broke again. 

Just that word.

The minutes started to bleed together, ink diluting in a puddle of water, and the next time he was aware of anything outside of his own mind, his name was in the air.

"Techno."

He blinked. His pencil slipped through his fingers and rolled down the desk. “Yeah?”

The teacher eyed him through turquoise-rimmed glasses, an eyebrow sliding up her wrinkled forehead. "The bell rang three minutes ago.”

"Oh."

His obnoxiously pink hair caught on his backpack when he slung it over his shoulder—and he haphazardly collected the half-complete sheets of paper, offering them to the woman without meeting her eyes. 

She said something else, probably a farewell, but he was turning down the hallway before it met his ears.

"Heya, Tech'." 

He tossed his backpack over his shoulder, sliding into the passenger seat of the car. He pulled the seat belt over his chest.

Phil's fingers drummed on the steering wheel in time with the radio's lighthearted notes, and the car moved casually forward. "How was your day?"

"Fine." 

He knew it was curt, but if he tried to say anything more he'd probably break down completely, and he really didn't want to do that in front of Phil. Not today. 

Not ever, actually.

The tapping seemed to fall out of rhythm. It sounded more nervous, then, and the man's eyes flicked between Techno and the road. "Ah. That's good."

Techno nodded, trying to ground himself on the vibrant trees flying past them.

The seat belt dug into his chest, and he wanted to sit in the darkness of his bedroom until he forgot the shape of his body.

"Did anything, um…" Phil turned down the music when the car reached a stoplight, twisting the knob until only the sound of vehicles impatiently humming around them remained. "Anything interesting happen today?"

_ Nope,  _ he tried to say, but his throat caught on the word, and the sound he produced was more comparable to a dying animal than anything coherent.

His hands were shaking, he registered vaguely—and something warm and wet was sliding down his face.

The anxiety written in Phil's eyes crumbled instantly, a deep concern taking its place. "Techno—" 

_ Stop, stop, stop. _

The more he scrubbed at his tear ducts, the harder his heart squeezed—and the louder he sobbed. Anguish suffocated his lungs, making him gasp and choke on his own saliva.

_ I can't do this. I can't do this. Everything's so wrong. It's all so wrong. Just stop. Stop crying; stop feeling so wrong. _

"Everything's so wrong," he rasped, desperate cries bubbling past his lips. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, green and red blooming in his vision under the pressure.

“What is?” Phil’s voice was steady. Gentle. 

“My body.” He felt like a broken cassette tape, repeating unfiltered thoughts like a stuttering string of film. “It’s wrong. It’s wrong. I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Techno. Breathe.” The car met a bump in the road. “Talk it through slowly, bud. Take your time.”

Fibres of fabric were fire on his skin, scorching everywhere that was  _ wrong  _ and making him want to just bash his head into the dashboard instead of trying to talk through it. He sucked in a breath, working to steady his struggling lungs and spiraling mind.

What was he supposed to say? That his mind and body were oil and water, and that the only remedy was to sleep forever and hope that he wakes up in a universe where they could mix without issue? 

He didn’t know how to express that in a comprehensible way. He didn’t know if it was even possible.

“My body is wrong,” is what he settled on eventually—and it was just a repeat of what he already said, without the added bonus of frantic stammering. He dragged his hands down his face, hiccuping. “It’s wrong. My chest is wrong, my voice is wrong, my face is wrong…just. Everything. It’s all wrong. My brain doesn’t connect with it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You’re…trans, then?”

“No.” The word came out sharper—faster—than he wanted it to, but there were thorns of denial skewering his heart and he didn’t ever want to admit something like that to himself, let alone someone else. “No. I’m not, I’m just…oh god. I don’t want to be. I don't.”

More silence. The car rolled to its final stop, and sunlight bounced from its hood. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Techno. If you are.”

“It just. It feels so  _ wrong,  _ Phil. I don’t wanna change my body. I just…want to be in the right one.”

Phil tugged at his jacket sleeve, leaning into the leather seat. A paternal tenacity set in his brow as he stared into the rearview mirror. "I’m not really the most educated on these things, but, kid. Listen. You can’t exchange the body you’re in for a new one."

A bird whistled past the car windows. A crimson leaf drifted to the windshield.

"You can't. But." Phil turned to Techno. “You  _ can _ make yourself more comfortable with what you’ve got to work with. I can support you in that.”

Techno huffed. His forehead thumped on the dashboard, frustration and despair leaking into his tone. “I can’t do this. I can’t live a life where I’m always feelin’ like this, Phil. Even if there’s surgery. Even if there’s hormones. I just—I can’t. I can’t do this.”

A callused hand met his hair, then, careful to not move past his shoulders as it brushed through the strands. “We’ll try, okay? You don’t need to be alone with those feelings, anymore. I’m here, and you can talk to someone a lot better at this than me, too. And all the medical things—they’re up to you. You have all the time in the world to decide where you want to go with that. 

"Just. Don’t give up on yourself.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. 

Everything felt wrong, and he had a feeling it’d be like that for a long, long time—if not forever.  But, he could try. It was the only thing he could do, he supposed.

Other than dying.

“Okay."

The word sat in the air—a promise.

"I'll try."

**Author's Note:**

> no clue if this makes any sense but here we are lmao
> 
> also if any ccs express discomfort with vent fics like these, lmk and i'll remove this


End file.
